forgottenpants: (sads)
Pete? Still drunk, still in his room, currently curled up on his bed roll and sobbing into his spare holster.

Though if anyone should see him doing this, he would deny it to the ends of the world.
forgottenpants: (sads)
Pete was drunk by 7 am.

What? He's a cowboy. He's used to being up at dawn.

Currently, he was drinking the firewater and slouching on his bed roll, his spare holster in his lap.

"Oh, baby," he said to the holster. "I just miss you so much. What are they doin' to you down there in that dank locker? I'll come for you soon, baby, I promise. I just need a plan. . . . But plannin' is just so hard!"

Then he burst into tears and cuddled the holster.

This has been going on for awhile.

[ooc: can be knocked upon and invaded by the roommate, but I'm not sure a seriously emo Pete is anything that anyone wants to deal with for too long. . . .]
forgottenpants: (glee)
Pete has discovered an interesting little game on this 'computer' thing called Oregon Trail.

So far, Big Smith has had a fever, Bowler has broken his leg, Weiss drowned and took most of their food with him, and Brisco . . . had had nothing happen to him at all.

Of course.

Damned Brisco County Jr.

Ooo, now Big Smith had dysentery.

Heeeeeee, dysentery.

[ooc: room is open]
forgottenpants: (doom)
Pete had managed to meander his way to what seemed to be his assigned room.

With a roommate.

Ugh.

Then he saw the note that some kind soul had thought to print out and tape to the door.

"A week of continued solitude. May it be the longest week ever."

With that, Pete opened to the door to get settled in and poke at the newfangled devices they had about all over the place.

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